You Will Always Be the Same, But I Won't
by Nehszriah
Summary: Santa didn't interrupt the final layer of the dream crabs' shell, leaving things to turn out a whole lot different. [Last Christmas AU ending] . [Whouffaldi, with mention of Pinkwald]


A/N: Sometimes, when I have the availability to fulfill prompts, I open up a window of time for people to submit an idea to my writing tumblr. This is the product of one of those times.

The prompt for this one was "Twelve never realizes that they are still dreaming so he keeps coming to visit aged Clara until she finally dies."

* * *

You Will Always Be the Same, But I Won't

"There we go, that's it," he said, gently easing her up to a sitting position. She was feverish and shaking, which was something that the Doctor had seen before. After brushing some of her brown hair from her face, he took the compress from the bowl on the sidetable and wrung it out, placing it on her forehead.

"I never knew you to be so gentle, Doctor," Clara chuckled weakly. She coughed, the whole of her body rattling. "Why are you so good to me?"

"…because I lied when I shouldn't have, and it's a lie I'd take back if I could. Not a lot of those I've told."

"We both lied, you know that," she sighed. Her eyes shut and squinted tight—her headache was back. There wasn't much that the Doctor could sense in her, even with his mental fortifications dropped to the floor and her permission assuring him on, mostly because of the headache. It was turning her brain to pudding, to mush, because since he started acting her caregiver she was acting less and less the Clara he knew. She was herself enough now, yet neither were sure how long that was going to last.

The Doctor was fully aware of what was happening, but that didn't mean he was ready to admit it.

"Doctor…" Clara coughed. She took his hand in both of hers, her touch soft and like ice. "Go. Leave me. I won't be lonely long. Go find Gallifrey; you have all of time and space. Be their king, or their queen, if you like. You've spent too much time on me already."

"No, I haven't," the Doctor insisted. "I missed so much that… the only thing I can do is be here now." The sympathy headache was getting stronger now; the curse of being telepathic. "I'll hand you off to Danny, don't you worry."

"That _is_ my worry," she said. "You haven't left my side for more than five minutes since Christmas—you're not meant for endings."

"I can, if I want to be." He brought his other hand over to grasp Clara's. "I want to take it all back, I really do."

"You can't… neither of us can."

"I told you I've made mistakes," the Doctor murmured. "I want to fix at least what I can, where I can."

"How clever," Clara chuckled. "Promise me something?"

"Anything.

"Remember."

"Of course," he nodded. The Doctor and Clara gazed at one another, both smiling sadly. He eventually blinked and leaned forward. "Clara…?"

She did not respond.

"Take care of her, Mr. Pink," the Doctor said. He put down her hands and closed her eyes. "She took good care of me and now you have to take good care of her." Standing up, he turned to go to the door—there was a phone number in the hall that he was going to have to call—and a wave of cold realization walked over him.

The sympathy headache did not go away.

The Doctor gasped as he awoke, not due to lack of air, but at the realization that he had been asleep. "CLARA!" he shouted, scrambling to his feet and making a beeline for the TARDIS doors. If this was another dream, then there was still time. He ignored the sound of the alien parasite dissolving to dust and the volcanic world erupting all around him, for the only thing he could hear was a sharp, high-pitched ringing in his ear. It stabbed and gouged and felt as if an awl had been jammed straight into his ear and brain. The Doctor put a hand up to his head and froze, mid-walk to the console.

Bringing his hand down, he saw his fingers were covered with a slick, bluish fluid that was quickly oxidizing to red. His eyebrows rose and his lips parted as he watched the golden glow of regeneration seep out from underneath his sleeve and envelop his hand.

He had been too late.


End file.
